Reminiscence
by The Darkness Factor
Summary: Or, "The Last Seven Days of Claire Farron."


The Last Seven Days of Claire Farron

Or

Reminiscence

Disclaimer: I don't own Final Fantasy XIII.

Day 1

The scent of pages in a book has always appealed to her in a way that not even the sweet aroma of her mother's jam could compare with. It's an indescribable delight to her- to be able to curl up in the squashy armchair of her late father and bury her nose in a book, her nostrils inhaling the paper's odor, her eyes drinking in the spidery words printed there, her hand caressing each page, whether smooth or rough, when she turned it reverently. These have been her favorite times, from the moment she first picked up a children's story as a little girl: just sitting contentedly on the armchair, lost in another's universe.

Unfortunately, the number of real, physical books is dwindling; electronic copies are becoming more dominant, and most people simply download books onto their datapads. Claire has done so as well, but the use of the electronic device has never struck a chord in her the same way that gripping the corporeal manifestation of a book does. She thinks that she will never have need for a boyfriend; she has found her love in these envoys of learning.

Claire's head snaps up, the spell that the words have woven broken by a sonorous clatter emitting from the kitchen. Carefully slipping the worn, rose adorned bookmark that she's had for years between the pages, she places the novel onto the small table next to the chair, before standing far too quickly. Spots of blackness swirl in her vision as the blood is pulled from her head, but she blinks several times to dispel the sensation and nearly catches her foot on the pair of running shoes that her sister has left next to the door to the sitting room. It slides open with a mere whisper at her approach, revealing a flustered Serah hunched over the newly-dented frying pan.

Her younger sister straightens when she steps into the room, the rouge on her cheeks showing no sign of retreating. Claire doesn't say anything at first; she merely grasps the pan by the handle and hoists it onto the stove, presuming that that's the reason why Serah has taken it out in the first place. Serah's slipper-covered feet shuffle from side to side on the wood floor as she avoids meeting Claire's eye.

"You might wake Mom up," she says, a gentle reprimand in her voice that only makes the red deepen into scarlet. Serah always gets flustered easily, no matter the situation and no matter how familiar she is with the people present. Claire knows that it's a quality her sister wishes to be rid of; she, on the other hand, has always found it rather endearing. They are both thinking the same thing as they both listen for any stirrings indicating movement coming from upstairs. There are none.

"Sorry," Serah mumbles, lips barely moving with what she spoke. Claire feels a tiny smile pulling at her mouth. "I just wanted to make some breakfast for Mom. She's been stressed out at her job lately…"

"I know," replies Claire heavily, brushing a rose bang out of her eye, feeling it tug on her eyelash slightly. She does know. Her mom needs to work overtime in order to receive enough pay to support the three of them. Esper Farron always insists that she would go to Pulse and back for her two daughters, but Claire can tell by looking at the creases on her mother's elegant face that the strain is beginning to take its toll on her. She often tries to stay up to wait for her mom to come home, but usually ends up falling asleep before she arrives.

It's a good idea, then, to make breakfast for Mom. Serah loves to cook, too, which means it's even better. Claire prepares to return to the sitting room and her waiting novel; she usually rises before Phoenix's light in order to catch another hour or so of reading. An early bird gets the worm; Claire Farron gets more knowledge packed into her cranium.

That plan is quickly dispelled. "Hey Sis, could you help me out?"

Claire can almost feel her blood leaving her skin a stark white on her face, the opposite of Serah's. She's hopeless at cooking; she knows it, and so does Serah. Why, then, is Serah asking? She prepares to decline, a reasonable speech entailing the horrible scenarios that could result from her attempting to work in the kitchen, but it dies on her lips when she sees her sister's stance- the glimmering indigo irises, the way her hands fidget on the hem of her skirt, and the way she digs her toes into the side of the nearby counter.

Resigned, Claire agrees; how is she supposed to say no to that?

Their end goal is blueberry pancakes, topped with syrup and fresh fruit. Fortunately, the only thing of incident that occurs is Claire nearly slicing into the flesh on her hand while cutting up strawberries and bananas. She sucks on each of her fingers, savoring the mix of strawberry juice and banana pulp, and considers making a smoothie for her breakfast. Judging from the enticing smell, Serah's nearly finished with the pancakes, and it's with a swelling pride and satisfaction that she adds the fruit slices to the top of the concoction. Their mother will love this, she knows.

Pink and gold rays spear through the windowpanes, painting the cabinets on the other side of the room gold and reflecting on the glass to create a kaleidoscope that is just barely visible on the walls. Of all the fal'Cie that support Cocoon, Phoenix is by far Claire's favorite, if only because of its beauty. Perhaps one day she will be able to go and stand on the fal'Cie's observation deck and view all of the floating shell's landscape before her. She has read books describing the sight. Love stories often place romantic scenes there. Epic tales have battles being fought there. Claire just wants to see if it lives up to the beautiful depictions.

Exactly one minute after the image passes, Esper Farron shuffles into the room, her cerulean orbs dull and with dark circles adorning them. This tired visage vanishes almost immediately as she takes in the sight of the kitchen- her two daughters standing beside the plate of food, looking almost nervous in anticipation of her highly valued opinion (Claire will still value it, even though she didn't do much). She beams at them, pulling them both into a gentle embrace.

"It looks delicious, girls," she intones; her voice cracks slightly as she says it. Claire feels her spine become more erect, but the seed of worry that has taken root in her stomach pushes its way upward a centimeter further. Their mom hasn't gotten much sleep again, and it can only mean that she had an especially bad day yesterday. She and her sister exchange glances, before both of them assure their mother that yes, they got plenty of sleep last night, that they finished their homework, and that they have everything ready for today. Esper then seats herself in one of the chairs, taking a bite of a pancake and letting her eyes slide closed while chewing, the smile setting her face alight.

"I was right," she said, once the lump of her throat moved indicating a swallow. "Superb. You two have really outdone yourselves this time. I must be the luckiest mother on the planet, having two such wonderful daughters." Claire isn't fooled, even though she feels even more delighted at the statement. She knows full well that it's really the other way around.

In the end, time passes with more speed than expected, and she finds that she doesn't have any left to make a smoothie, so she settles for a couple of granola bars while slipping the novel into her book bag along with her datapad and phone. The bag is standard- only large enough to fit the datapad and a few other things. She's already dressed in the uniform: a knee length, pleated blue and green skirt, a crisp white blouse with short sleeves, and a pair of gray leggings. It's the expectation that every student don it at Bodhum Academy; Serah's wearing it as well.

Just as they're about to step out the door to their townhouse, their mom calls back to them:

"We're going on a little trip to Eden this Sunday, girls! Just think- it'll be your first time seeing the capital."

Something in between a shriek and a squeal escapes from Serah's mouth before her hand claps over her mouth, red creeping back into her cheeks, yet her eyes are positively dancing with joy. Claire feels a thrill of excitement tingle every one of her nerves as well just thinking about it. Eden: the showcase of Cocoon's accomplishment, where only the cream of the crop dwells. She wonders if there are any rare books for sale there, and reminds herself that she needs to bring some spending gil with her.

The warmth of Phoenix's light caresses the bare skin on her arms and face and she basks in the pleasure of her muscles stretching after sitting in the armchair without changing position for more that forty five minutes. Claire has always been happiest during the simplest of times, whether it's in the company of her books or the short walk to the academy. The academy journey is when the world is only just waking up, and Cocoon is almost always silent and tranquil. She knows that it can be considered an escape from her troubles, but that doesn't bother her. She is certain that everyone else does the same at times.

The townhouse where they live is part of a row of houses, all exactly the same on the outside, but of course differing fundamentally on the inside. They have lived there for three years now, after being forced to sell the nicer, larger home that Claire and Serah grew up in. Theirs is a life of school and constantly sharing the fear that their mother will some day break from the crushing weight of responsibility that is placed upon her. Claire wishes that she could help in some way- perhaps by dropping out of school and getting a job- but her mom won't hear of it. Only a few days ago, Serah said to her that she wants their mom to be able to see that her refusal to let them help is hurting them too.

It really does make them both feel pain, watching their mother destroy herself like this. They are not yet on the brink of applying for the Sanctum Welfare Program, but Claire can still feel that undesirable option looming over each of their heads, a storm cloud with rain just waiting to fall. She has resolved to be victorious in this year's essay writing contest, since the prize is 1500 gil- a veritable fortune for them. She's already submitted her entry, and the results will be arriving on Wednesday. All the while, the knowledge that this burden on their mom would be eased if their father was still with them stays in their minds.

Serah doesn't really remember their father. Claire does. Sometimes, she wishes she didn't. Maybe that would dull the pain of the illness stealing him away. The years have burned and blurred the edges of his being, making him more difficult to picture, but she easily recalls his larger-than-life heart and devotion to his family. Suddenly, the fal'Cie warmth is no longer warm. Her hands tighten uncomfortably. A dull ache settles in her lungs, hitching her air. Clumsily, she adjusts the glasses on the bridge of her nose, feeling the ache rise into her throat.

_"Mommy, why does it hurt when I think about Daddy?"_

_ "You miss him, Claire."_

She considers whipping out her novel to intoxicate herself right then, but Serah saves her the trouble. (It's been ten years. Why does it still affect her so much?)

"Oh crap!" she exclaims, a loud slap sounding as her hand collides with her forehead, a panicked look appearing on her face. Her ponytail of pink is whipped around as she shakes her head back and forth, wringing her hands. "I completely forgot my history homework!"

Claire can't hold back her snort. "I don't see why you're worried. Mrs. Cranston loves you."

"That's _exactly _why I'm freaking out here, Claire!" Now she's bouncing on her feet, slowing her pace and forcing Claire to slow her own to match. "She's expecting me to present my answers to the class, I just know it! What'll she think of me if I let her down? Maybe she won't recommend me for the honors class when I get to grade nine. She's really strict, you know, and she doesn't like it when kids blow her off on something like that"-

_"Serah."_

Serah's yammering mouth abruptly snaps shut like a mousetrap and she curls her hands around each other, the sunlight offsetting the color of her nails- pink, like her silky strands. Claire feels a pang of pity for her sister, knowing how much her history class and being successful in said class means to her, but if they go back for the work, then they'll be late. Her homeroom teacher, Mr. Hanson, will kill her if she's late for the third time in the semester.

Her sister remains quiet through the rest of the trip, even though her thoughts are probably weaving a web of worry in her mind. It isn't surprising; Bodhum Academy is a prestigious school, and both sisters are expected to do well. Claire can never seem to succeed in math, but as literature is her love, she excels in English and does well enough in History. So far, her biology class has proved to be interesting, but she believes that it isn't the right field for her. She knows that her mom would chuckle and tell her that it's a bit early to be thinking about a career, but it pays off to plan ahead at times. The academy, thankfully, doesn't force them to take physical education. It isn't that Claire really loathes the class, but she truthfully believes it to be a waste of time. Going for a run on the beach once in a while is a rejuvenating experience, but she's hoping to have more of an intellectual job.

The building housing the academy's campus isn't exactly a _building, _per se. There's a gleaming, silver outer wall with different intervals for the entrances, enclosing the smaller buildings for each of the academic departments. There is no roof over the campus; the fal'Cie have allowed that it doesn't need to rain in Bodhum, so the school is open to the sky, as well as the saline scent of the sea. There are gardens everywhere, with numerous enclosed spaces where it's possible to merely sit and remain undisturbed by the chaos of the outside world. Claire has done so often, usually in the company of a particularly good book.

The doors are open, as they always are for an hour during arrival time and an hour during dismissal. Claire feels a sense of resignation as she and her sister enter the confines; how she wishes she doesn't have to go to class (not that she really pays attention in class anyway. Most of the time she hides her novels under the desk and reads while the instructor is lecturing). Serah says goodbye and makes her way over to her group of friends, who are currently whispering amongst themselves about some trifle of gossip or another. Claire goes straight to homeroom within the General Academics building: Room GA-203. The teacher hasn't arrived yet. She takes her seat at a desk in the back of the room, not wanting any attention to be fixed upon her today.

She doesn't get her wish.

The moment Mr. Hanson sees her she is beckoned up to the front of the room, where he eyes her critically for a few awkward seconds. Claire knows for a fact that she isn't in trouble- she can't be, as anything she had done would've been addressed the previous week, and a weekend has passed her by. Perhaps he is going to tell her that her other instructors have finally submitted complaints about her lack of attention and participation in most of her courses. That wouldn't surprise her. However, it turns out to be neither of those things.

"Miss Farron," he begins, but he abruptly stops himself. The door whooshes likes her mother's automatic vacuum cleaner as it opens, indicating that her fellow ninth years are trickling in. She can feel their gazes like a drill into her back, but she doesn't give in to the temptation to turn around and match their stares. She knows it will only escalate the discomfort that her situation has brought.

"Claire," he reaffirms, more quietly and less… rigidly than before. Her eyebrows almost rise at this; he never calls any of his students by their first name. Anxiety makes her heard pound against her ribcage erratically. Nothing is wrong with Serah, she knows, and she only just saw her mom, so that can't be the problem. But then, what…?

"There are… rumors, circulating around campus that I thought you should be aware of." He looks distinctively uncomfortable now, a fact that only causes her unease to branch into her bloodstream and make her feel even weaker with nerves. Rumors? What rumors? By the fal'Cie, if any of them give Serah a bad name, then they won't know the meaning of ass-kicking until they get retribution from her. Claire is certain that an intense frown is now fixed on her face; she forces her brow to unravel and her teeth to come off of her lip and attempts to look as nonchalant as possible.

"Other students are spreading around a story that you're a… emotionally disturbed person. You don't seem to congregate with anyone for anything other than academic purposes, you hardly ever participate during class time according to your teachers, and you reportedly disappear from the grounds during breaks. Students believe that you hide somewhere and… may I see your wrists?"

This is all Claire needs to hear; she's already feeling her insides beginning to boil and rupture at the implications of her classmates. She thrusts out her wrists at him, showing him the perfectly smooth skin on the inner part of her arms. They think she is emo. She can see how her actions might be misinterpreted by others, but jumping to the conclusion that she cuts herself is absolutely ridiculous. Her body would be substantially weaker from bloodless by now. She is grateful, however, that the rumors don't involve Serah in some way. She wants her sister to be happy.

Mr. Hanson nods, seemingly satisfied that the stories flying from people's mouths were false and sends her back to her seat. In an instant her novel is in her hands again and she is a wanderer within the wondrous tale. It's called 'The Vanishing Frame'; it's a rather convoluted science fiction novel featuring hellish life on Pulse and a group of Cocoon residents who end up stranded there and are forced to survive. So far, three of the six main characters have died or been lost and never seen again. Claire has a foreboding feeling that only one of the six will remain at the end of the story. It saddens her, since two of the remaining characters are so clearly in love, and it's captivating to read about their desperation to survive for one another, though they still hold an amount of consideration for their other travelling companion.

The bell is a soft, but clearly audible ding. Almost as if a switch has been flipped, everyone in the room quiets, awaiting roll call. Once that triviality is taken care of, they are permitted to leave for their first class of the day. For Claire, this class is the cryptic and discombobulated branch of learning known as mathematics- her mortal enemy. For years it has been the bane of her very existence, holding her back at every turn. She just can't seem to grasp how numbers fit together in such twisted, unreliable patterns. Numbers befuddle her in a way that not even riddles can.

This time, however, it isn't the insidious logarithms that she's learning about that pounce on her from behind; it's the rumor mill.

Suddenly she can feel the whispering around her- the words touching her eardrums, though not quite enough that she comprehends them entirely. Eyes follow her from the moment she enters GA-123 and the conversations pause just long enough for her to infer as to the content of their thoughts. Claire realizes that this isn't going to wither and die like a flower without sunlight; she's going to have to put a stop to it herself. Unfortunately, this means forsaking her reading for a time and actually attempting to participate in class- at least until the vicious gossips move on to another victim. Well, then. She might as well begin now.

Her datapad is set on her desk; she has chosen a seat at the anterior of the room for once, instantly feeling the mixture of amusement and derision aimed straight at her from the others surrounding her on all sides. Even her instructor is staring at her as though she is on the verge of imploding and destroying his meticulously tidied up workspace. And so Claire is ready to begin phase one of Operation 'Annihilate the Rumor'. She likes the choice of title; it sounds catchy to her, like something out of a book.

"I've sent you today's lesson," the teacher states, without preamble. Indeed, there is a brand new attachment in her messages inbox; she opens it to find that their subject today is natural logarithms- something to do with the letter 'e', which has some sort of warped, irrational value. A groan is set into Claire's throat, but she doesn't let it escape in spite of the high level of her exasperation. She doesn't even understand _normal _logarithms, much less ones with an insane letter (that was actually a number) involved.

In other words, it confuses the living hell out of her. So much for participation. However, it seems that participation isn't exactly a choice if you sit in such close proximity to the teacher, as her name is called out several times; she stumbles over the answers. Her eyes slide left- the boy next to her keeps glancing at her, glances that are filled with anticipation. What? Does he expect her to whip out a knife and start slashing herself right there and then?

She will never admit it, but the amount of negative attention that she's receiving disturbs her greatly. Claire is accustomed to being overlooked- after all, who bothers with the quiet kid that wears glasses, reads much more than is normal for a human being, and whose social skills are still less than up to par? Oh, that's right- bullies do. She finds herself boarding this train of thought and nearly departs from the class into the world of her thoughts, but she jumps back onto the platform of reality before it can pull out of the station.

Attempting to bother with such strife turns out to be agonizing. Claire is wholeheartedly convinced that the instructor is speaking a completely different language, but she stares straight ahead of herself and keeps her spine straight, just to emit the façade of active listener. After the first ten minutes tick by, she gives up and allows her daydreams to carry her away. She ponders the reasons why she's the newest material for the rumor mill. Absently, instead of scribbling example equations into her datapad, she jots down these justifications. It helps to get inside the head of her enemies- or so most of her books say.

She is defined as a nerd- she wears glasses, she reads constantly, and she is intelligent in most subjects. She rarely converses with anyone outside of schoolwork; she calls it keeping to herself, others call her 'emo' or 'anti-social'. Her best friend from school moved to Palumpolum ages ago, and she hasn't gained a single friend since apart from her sister. The last idea that comes to mind is by far the one she is most reluctant to accept.

Her father is dead.

Claire likes to think that she came to terms with that a long time ago, but she knows she hasn't. It isn't enough to make her turn to slicing open her wrists for relief, but evidently the student population believes otherwise. She doesn't believe that there is any more evidence that can be used against her apart from that. Doing something so self-destructive would only hurt Serah and her mother. There is already a dark shadow pressed onto her mother; she doesn't need to worry about anything more than that- only, she does. Her mother worries constantly. Claire can see it every time they make eye contact. Much more passes between the two of them than just words and embraces.

She is tugged out of her reverie by the bell signaling her next class. She strides through the grounds more quickly than usual, relieving herself in the restroom before finding her favorite alcove in the gardens. She is certain that she is the only person with knowledge of its existence, which is just fine by her. Leafy fronds hide the small apple tree from public view, and it possesses a small curve near the bottom that provides the perfect place for settling down. Claire closes her eyes and allows her limbs to go limp for the first time, feeling relatively at peace.

_… Marlena couldn't see anything. The dust from the collapse of the ancient structure surrounded her on all sides, sending her to her knees in a horrendous coughing fit. Her ears were ringing from the resounding symphony of destruction playing its song all around her. It seemed to take years for everything to settle, and even then she knew that she was in the fal'Cie's favor for having survived. Once the dust had fallen, her eyes became fixed on an unmoving figure not five feet away…_

Claire's head snaps up. She mentally curses the giggling gaggle of girls outside of her sanctuary for interrupting her just when the story was reaching a critical juncture. Her name is mentioned, and her ears prick up; she temporarily discards knowledge of the novel in order to eavesdrop more closely. From what she can tell, it's one of her math classmates, Vanessa, and her friends.

"… just trying to cover up the truth? I mean, she, like, never sits in the front, right?"

"Brianna, how many times do I have to tell you? We have to be careful what we say! You're probably right; she probably knows now that we know her secret. Kyle told me that she had to talk to his homeroom teacher today, but nothing really, like, happened. But still, she'd probably attack us for saying this stuff."

"Um… has anyone ever, like, actually _seen_ her doing it? Y'know… cutting herself?"

"No, but come on. Her dad died"-

"That was years ago, Vanessa."

"And her mom's an alcoholic."

"What? No way! How do you know?"

"My dad was at a bar late the other night, and he told me that he saw Esper Farron there, chugging down hard liquor. He says that he's never seen anyone drink so much."

"Whoa… you think that Claire's one too?"

"Maybe. I mean, since she cuts herself and all, it's a possibility."

"Hold on, Vanessa. Was your dad drunk when he said this?"

"…I…"

"Well then, it probably wasn't Mrs. Farron that he saw. I met her once, when she was helping here. She seemed really nice."

"Yeah, maybe, but how long ago was _that? _Fourth year?"

"It was third year…"

"Makes me feel kinda bad for her sister."

"Yeah, I know. Raised in a house like that? That sucks."

"Uh-huh. One day she could end up a hopeless drunk too. At least she has friends."

"True. Still…"

On that note, they wander away. It's all Claire can do to keep from screaming in utter helplessness and frustration. Her attempt to dispel the tall tales of her habits failed miserably, which leaves a much less desirable option: diverting the spotlight onto someone else. As her rage trickles out of her, leaving her weak-muscled, a plot begins to take shape in her mind's eye. It combines rather sadistic revenge with a practical method of getting herself out of this situation, but it makes her feel as though her heart is a rotten, desecrated organ. She unceremoniously shoves the feeling aside, choosing instead to select the perfect target for her vengeance.

After hearing Vanessa's biased summary of her own life, she already knows exactly who she intends to set her sights on.

An hour later, Claire is writing left handed on a sheet of loose-leaf paper while sitting in biology. They don't usually use it, but Mrs. Russo keeps a large supply of it underneath the window, where the sun sometimes turns it blindingly white. She is really right handed, but writing with the other hand guarantees that it won't be recognized as her script, should her biology teacher happen to pick it up. When the others file out of the room, she stays behind, pretending to be rummaging through her bag looking for something. The paper slides to the floor beneath her desk, and she 'accidentally' steps on it, making it look ever so slightly crumpled.

The next class is also ninth years. Nothing can go wrong with this; Mrs. Russo enjoys gossiping just as much as the rest of them. The results are even more immediate than expected. One by one, she feels the contemptuous gazes leaving her in her history class, all of them peeling away like layers of heavy clothing as their attention turns to a new message sent out to their datapads. Claire isn't on the mailing list, but she already knows what it says. Being smug has never felt more satisfying.

Lunchtime rolls around, and to her surprise and joy, Serah decides to sit with her today. Her sister is looking unusually disgruntled, her crystalline eyes looking a shade closer to violet than the lighter blue she knows. A frown is fixed upon her lips, and Claire immediately suspects something. Has her sister heard the rumors about herself and their mom? Does she think that they're true?

"I can't believe them!"

Serah slams her fork down onto her tray; Claire feels the motion reverberate through the tabletop, but doesn't react apart from raising her stare to meet Serah's rather anxious one. She concludes that Serah has heard the rumors, and is as indignant as she is. A part of her feels vindicated that her sister is on her side, but another part feels guilty; she shouldn't have to hear such awful-

"Those jerks are being so mean to Vanessa! Don't they know that you shouldn't count on everything gossip tells you? Ugh! The nerve of them… Kyle just dumped her; she was crying her eyes out in the bathroom. Everyone's making fun of her for this, but they didn't see her; if they had, they'd know she didn't really do it."

Claire listens silently, trying to ignore how quickly her lunch has turned to acid in her stomach.

"I mean, come on! You wouldn't say that stuff about anybody, right Claire?"

"I'm not sure what you're talking about." Her voice is strangled, as though a curious frog has leapt into it.

Serah sighs impatiently. "You haven't heard? Apparently, someone saw Vanessa kissing Gerard the other day. She keeps saying it isn't true, but no one believes her. I know she can be a bit of a bitch sometimes, but no one deserves to have _that_ said about them."

"Huh," replies Claire, swallowing. When did her hands get so sweaty? "So who claimed to have seen it, then?"

"No one seems to know. I think it's a bunch of bull." Serah scrutinizes her, and Claire turns her head slightly and fidgets with her book. "Are you okay? You look kind of sick. Maybe you should see the nurse."

"No!" replies Claire, a bit more loudly than she intends to. Her sister jumps. "No," she says again, more calmly this time. "I'm fine. I'm just a bit tired."

Her heart races inconsolably while Serah chastises her for always rising so early and staying up so late to wait for their mother. Claire can't seem to hear her however, enslaved as she is by her own guilt. Had she truly wanted to completely ruin the reputation of another? It seemed to be the right thing to do at the time, but now Serah's words have made her own misgivings spring forth. She can already see her sister's shocked gaze if she finds out the truth of Claire's involvement in Vanessa's demise. She can already feel the barbs that Serah's reprimanding will carry.

Then she remembers what Vanessa said- about her. About her mother. About Serah herself. She looks at her sister, who is now chatting amiably about how her history teacher didn't end up using her work as an example anyway. Will she understand? Claire is aware that she will not. The concept of vengeance has never been one of her sibling's strong suits. But Claire is right to have taken the attention off of her and her family. Isn't she?

She has another free period before her next class. She looks at Serah again- at the way her sister's eyes shine at her, and realizes that she will take those eyes in a heartbeat over a better reputation. Her original plan is selfish. She will have to right it again. Claire's resolution is made. Vengeance or not, she was wrong. It's not easy for her to admit to it.

She finds Vanessa being harassed by the same friends that she was spilling her suspicions about Claire to only hours beforehand. She sees the visible flinch of the girl at each new question and quickens her pace, not allowing herself to feel any fear at what she is about to do. Each step forward is still somehow able to wane her resolve, but she clings to it with a stubbornness she was born with.

She does get some satisfaction at the dumbfounded expressions they wear when she says curtly, "Leave her alone."

"Why would _you_ want to help?" one of Vanessa's so-called 'friends' replies. Her hands are placed on her hips, and a sneer is placed on her lips. She tosses her head in the direction of Vanessa, whose angry, tear-filled gaze is bearing down on Claire almost unendurably. She realizes that Serah was indeed right about her actions.

"Anything you've heard about Vanessa isn't true. I made it up."

Taking the silence as an invitation, Claire continues, "And anything you've heard or said about me also isn't true. I don't cut myself, I don't drink, my mom isn't an alcoholic, and my sister is the nicest person I have ever, and will ever, know. She's also my best friend. Say anything about her, and I'll know about it."

Claire knows that adding the second bit about Serah probably isn't the smartest idea in the world, but she feels compelled to do so. They all inch away after a few tense seconds of staring at her, jaws dropped. Only Vanessa herself doesn't move, her chocolate eyes fixed on Claire. She meets her gaze without showing emotion, unable to see exactly what Vanessa is thinking.

The words that emit from the brunette's mouth surprise her, though not as much as they seem to surprise Vanessa.

"Thanks."

Claire deadpans, "No problem," and walks away.

"If you were an element what would you be?" Serah asks, walking beside her.

Claire's reply has zero hesitation. "Wind. It goes wherever it wants."

"Really? I'd be water. It's smooth, flowing, and gives life to others." She pauses. "I'm glad you fixed it, Claire. And you should've told me about the rumors."

"I didn't want to"-

"-worry me. Yeah, I know. But I'm thirteen now Claire. I'm going to have to learn how to take care of myself. You don't have to do everything alone. We're sisters. We're supposed to support each other. It's not a one sided thing."

They turn onto their street. Claire looks over at Serah in surprise, who is staring up at the fading Phoenix. The sky has turned indigo, and she could feel the approaching night in the newfound cool temperature in the air. Her sister has a stubborn, determined look on her face that she has seen on herself many times. She realizes that she means it. And yet older siblings are supposed to look after the younger ones- not the other way around.

Serah turns to smile at her. "I know you've got my back, sis. But I have yours too, okay?"

Claire returns the smile and nods. Together, they go home.


End file.
